WHERE SHE WAS GOING THEN ...

WHERE SHE WAS GOING THEN


What rises from this night’s mind?
What strange animals remain faceless
At an old woman’s window, waiting to stir,
And what is it that steals for an instant
The air from her struggling lungs?

The large shadow of an owl glides by,
Sweeps along dark surfaces of cold
Wet brick, water streaked windows,
Then brick again…
And with a flutter and a rush,
It rests upon the rustling of branches,
Upon the upheaval of leaves.

The rain unleashes a steady current of memories.
Outside, the water stained wood of fence posts
And the dark waxy shadow of foliage
Reflect for the woman
An old moment
Of time divided and spent.
A girl once rode her grandmother’s mare,
Rushing across a silvery field,
Dodging white lightning at her heels.
She was brilliant
In the intermittent light, with rain on face,
But who can remember now
Where she was going then?

This old woman’s exchange of breath
Insists upon another recollection:
A succession of barefoot summers
Filled with purple evening skies,
Where quiet bats would thread the trees together
With the invisibility of their senses
In the finite street lamp light…
Diffused and spreading gently
In its circular direction,
Yet ending.

The woman considers all of this.
She considers her ghost and what a moment is.
She considers the hushed rhythms of the rain
And the sounds of the tires which rip
Through the drizzle before the muffled rhythms resume.
She considers the ghosts which require
That she give herself a name.